


Marigold

by healthycereal



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bed-Wetting, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Established Relationship, Gardens & Gardening, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Non-Sexual Age Regression, Not Canon Compliant, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Thumb-sucking, non-sexual cgl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2020-06-23 22:36:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19710868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/healthycereal/pseuds/healthycereal
Summary: “Then, I want…” Bucky hesitates. He’s not allowed to want. Or, wasn’t allowed to want. It’s hard to keep track of what he is, isn’t, should, shouldn’t, can, can’t. He starts again, in a manner he deems more appropriate. “Can I sleep in here? With you?”





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> just as an fyi, the tags encompass the entirety of how much i hope to write (~7 chapters)

It’s not unreasonable that things about them have changed, given that it’s been a hundred years or so since they were cognizant of their surroundings; Steve newly Captain America and Bucky following behind him as a Howling Commando. Regardless, it’s hard for Steve to _not_ notice the multitude of ways in which his other half has changed since 1945.

At his core he’s the same Bucky Barnes, intrepid and hard headed and enamored with Steve Rogers. Physically alone he looks worlds different. Steve could recognize his eyes, his face from thousands in a crowd but he held a different air with the long, messy hair he’d had for a while now. He’d decided on letting it grow out, partially because he liked the idea of how it’d look, but mostly because he didn’t want to deal with the unnecessary social interaction of a barber.

Then there’s the arm. The arm’s a pretty big thing, literally and figuratively. Steve can see how it’s weight has changed the way he walks; he would’ve described it as an uneven stalk while he was the Winter Soldier and would describe it as endearing now. He’d noticed that he tends towards keeping it in his pocket or at his side and prefers standing to Steve’s left so he doesn’t hold his hand with it. Bucky has full control over every piece of the black, humming metal but is still wary, unsure of if he trusts himself not to hurt someone with it. 

He’d had 70 years of practice, so it wasn’t as if he was completely incompetent, but now that his purpose wasn’t to kill he did find it a bit hard to adjust to holding a pen or spoon without crushing it. He grimaces every time something calls for him to write his name, or anything really, and puts extreme care into forming his letters in a semi-coherent manner. He’d tried using his right hand for a while but it was completely illegible, marred by the fact that it was never his dominant hand. 

Of course, Steve realized the gravity of him losing his left arm soon after the initial shock of seeing him alive wore off. He could have blamed knowing something so small on the serum’s magnification of his memory but long before even becoming Captain America, he’d committed seemingly every tiny detail about Bucky to memory. It wasn’t necessarily on purpose, he hadn’t meant to burn into his mind his favorite flavor of jelly bean or shoe size, he simply loved him so much that every small, inconsequential detail felt like it’s own little treasure. And now his heart aches every time he sees the reverence with which he writes things as simple as James Buchanan Barnes. 

Shuri, the princess of Wakanda with an impressive penchant for engineering, had been kind enough to design the one he wore now in addition to figuring out the process behind removing the trigger words HYDRA had kept within him. T’challa had made it clear to Steve that he bore no ill will against Bucky and offered to let him stay in Wakanda as a form of refuge; Bucky considered it but ultimately declined the offer, preferring to be wherever Steve was. Though he didn’t even know exactly where ‘with Steve’ would take him, he favored his companionship far more than the guaranteed security Wakanda would have afforded him.

‘With Steve’ turned out to be in Maryland, comfortably removed from the flurry of cars and lights and crowds. Despite Bucky assuring him that he didn’t mind living in his apartment in D.C., Steve figured that it would be good for both of them to have a semblance of breathing room. Bucky was silently grateful for it and amused to see nothing had really changed the little punk when he avoided moving _too_ far away from the capital ‘just in case’. As distasteful as he found the idea of being included in a call to action, he knew Steve was right and that the two of them would undoubtedly get thrust into some convoluted conflict after settling down. It's happened so many times he’s resigned himself to expecting it, understanding that fighting, whether it be his own battles or someone else’s, is just a part of his life. He savors the domesticity between the two of them as best he can, the anxiety about the prospect of being torn away from it always present in the back of his mind.

Steve had sensed that tension since they’d reunited, Bucky’s behavior and body language betraying how easily he brushes off any concern shown to him. He starts easily, so easily that Steve prefaces any touch by asking permission. Most days Bucky nods and lets him kiss him, hug him, hold his hand and on others he shakes his head, mind obviously preoccupied with something else.

He definitely still has his acerbic wit but tends more towards silence now, preferring to communicate nonverbally. It was foreign at first, not having a unabating stream of banter going on between them, but the quiet that sometimes dominates their moments together isn’t uncomfortable. In between those moments of wordlessness or others of ceaseless chattering he hums, seemingly for himself but loud enough for Steve to hear (and appreciate). From what he can tell it’s all nursery rhymes from when they were kids; Pretty Little Dutch Girl, Three Little Kittens, A Wise Old Owl, rhymes that he otherwise hadn’t heard or thought about for years. It’s one of many things Bucky does that can’t help but make Steve think are reminiscent of something a child may do. 

When the two of them go out together he finds Bucky is always at his side, clutching his hand and letting himself be lead while he glances around, interested in every storefront or otherwise interesting thing they encounter. It’s a far cry from the moments where he walks next to Steve, apprehensive about anything that could be construed as a threat, every muscle organic and metal tense. So, naturally, he prefers it when Bucky drags him to look at every interestingly packaged thing while grocery shopping and finds himself engaging him, asking questions about why he’s interested in that, what he thinks about this. He doesn’t see him as a child but instead sees him as having the same amount of wonder as one and is thankful for how contended it seems to make him to revel in that. 

He doesn’t know if it’s a conscious decision, but decides not to pry in case it isn’t. He’s been with Bucky long enough to know that being asked ‘are you acting like a kid on purpose?’ would make him clam up and probably (definitely) piss him off. It seems to make Bucky happy to have Steve help him pick out his clothes or read things aloud for him, so he doesn’t mind indulging him in it. He guesses it’s his way of dealing with everything that's happened to him and although he doesn’t necessarily understand it, he’s glad to do anything that makes Bucky even a fraction more happy. God knows he deserves it.

For a while, they sleep in separate rooms. It’s a modest house, one master bedroom where Steve sleeps and two rooms; Bucky uses one and the other functions as an office of sorts for Steve. Spending all day together to part at night feels like a far cry from how eager they were to do the opposite when they were younger. Worrying that he’s misunderstood the nature of their relationship, if it’s even still the same relationship it was after all of this time, Steve asks Bucky where they stand and gets a genuine laugh in response. It’s a sound he hasn’t heard so clearly and intimately in years that he almost doesn’t mind the condescension attached to it.

“I just want to make sure I’m not crossing any boundaries with anything I do,” Steve’s mind immediately reminds him of the times that Bucky has hooked his arms around his waist, kissing his neck from behind or when they’ve bathed together. He’s starting to realize how dumb of a question it was, but regardless means what he says. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable by assuming we’re the same now as we were then.”

“We live together, alone,” Bucky says, squinting at him. He’s wearing a smile that screams ‘there is NO way you’re seriously asking this’.

“Well,” Steve definitely realizes how dumb a question it was.

“I’ve kissed you every day I’ve been able to. No way you thought that was platonic, right?” he asks amused, smiling at the emerging tinge in Steve’s cheeks. For everything that he was, he really did blush and giggle like a schoolgirl when he was around Bucky. Being the only one to do that was incredibly gratifying, an endearing way of saying that he really was infatuated with him. Somehow.

“I didn’t word that very well, huh? That’s not what I meant to say,” He chuckles at himself, too, embarrassed. Bucky gives a vague shake of his head. To him, it only made sense to silently resume where they left off. They were both the same, just much bigger, older and emotionally scarred. He rubs the back of his neck with a hand, starting over. “I just want to make sure you know you can sleep with me whenever you want, that’s all.”

“That’s a pretty forward thing to say, Stevie,” He jokes. Steve rolls his eyes, still smiling. Bucky considers the offer for a moment, turning it over in his head, and gives him an apologetic shrug. “I’m just not ready for… It’s nothing you did, I just… Y’know.”

Steve doesn’t really know but regardless nods, “Of course, Buck. Whenever you’re ready.”

* * *

He’d tried everything he could to combat the nightmares, done every inane holistic thing he’d read about or thought of to try and stop them, but they came anyway. Some were mild, jolted him awake and made his heart pound for a few minutes before he could lull back into sleep. It felt strange, but he was thankful for those. He would reflect on the images of his mangled arm or sharp recollections of _that_ room and _that_ damned chair and he’d be glad his brain stopped there, sparing him. 

But most were much worse. Distressingly real scenes played out in his mind; it was only when he was sleeping that he was able to vividly remember each and every person he’d ever killed. When it wasn’t that, it was what HYDRA itself had subjected him to. Every manner of torture, every STRIKE team member who’d ever touched him, the sensation of being mutiliated and electrocuted forcing him awake, drenched in sweat. He hates them all but the ones he hates the most are those about things that hadn’t even happened; fictionalized images of himself hurting people he’d come to befriend, hurting _Steve_. 

When he’s not left immobile, only able to stare ahead until he stops hyperventilating, he sometimes startles awake to find himself in a knot of his blankets, genuine terror at not being able to immediately free his limbs; brain screaming at him that he’s been trapped. Other times it’s by the sensation of him rolling out of bed and falling to the ground, unlucky enough to hit his head. What stopped him from sleeping with Steve, however, was far more mortifying. 

Steve has, of course, only ever loved him. Steve has done everything for him, shown him kindness in excess that he wasn’t sure he deserved. Part of him thought-- knew-- that Steve would be nothing but gentle in response to learning about his nightmares, that he would do anything to help alleviate whatever distressed Bucky, regardless of what it was. A much bigger, and darker, part of himself worried that he would be disgusted, put off by how immature Bucky was, by the fact that he hadn’t just gotten over it despite his best efforts. He couldn’t imagine Steve doing anything to truly wound him but still felt like he deserved to be punished in some manner for being so weak willed. 

Every night he’d go to bed staring at the ceiling, anxious for what he knew was coming, and every night he’d wake up, hating himself for letting it happen again. He tries not to sleep, sometimes resorting to simply pacing back and forth, but it always ends with him finding himself waking up, drenched in sweat. He could handle it at first, or could at least pretend he could, but by now he’s frazzled, exhausted. Steve notices, too, comments on how tired he looks, concerned, wanting nothing more than for Bucky to be healthy and happy. It makes Bucky’s gut twist with guilt and shame. He doesn’t want to make Steve worry, doesn’t want to make him deal with even more of his problems.

But he was finally, finally at his limit. 

Steve blinks awake at the hallway light being flicked on, yellow light filtering through the cracks of his door. Before his brain can really wake up and make him worry about it being some sort of intrusion, the door opens a crack and Bucky’s familiar silhouette stumbles into his room. He can’t see much, his eyes still catching up to the sudden brightness, but he can tell that something’s definitely _wrong_. 

“Buck, are you okay?” He sits up, watching as Bucky wordlessly crawls onto his bed and burrows underneath the covers. He puts a hand onto Steve’s chest and pushes on him, gentle, silently urging him to lay back down. When he does, Bucky sidles as close as he can to him, burying his face into the crook of his neck, putting his only arm across his chest. He’s slick with sweat, making the bare parts of them stick uncomfortably together. Steve can’t see his face but he can feel his curt puffs of breath hot on his neck.

“Bucky, hey,” He starts to slot his fingers through Bucky’s hair but falters when he feels him flinch under his touch. His heart aches. “Oh, Is it okay if I--”

Bucky affirms with a muffled “Mm-hmm”, being more receptive after being warned, then relaxing a fraction at the sensation of his fingers running through his hair. Steve notices how damp it is, the same as the rest of him. He’s shaking some, the breaths leaving him wavering as if he might cry. Steve’s stomach is in knots and he has absolutely no idea of what he should be doing to help, or what he’s actually trying to help with. “Is everything alright?”

“‘S just a nightmare,” Bucky barely manages to mumble out in response. He’s embarrassed that he’s letting Steve seeing him like this but he’s the singular bastion of comfort in this house, on this world. He values his pride, but right now he values knowing that he’s safe more. He’s at least thankful he can’t be seen clearly in the low light, his face tear stained and flushed. He’d tried to deal with it the same was he always did but something in him clawed at his brain, insatiable. Before he could understand why, he found himself opening the door to Steve’s bedroom, desperately clamoring under the covers with him. 

Steve pulls him as close as he can, planting a kiss into his hair. He runs his fingers over and over through it, the repetitive motion helping to at least slow Bucky’s breathing from desperate panting to something a little more even. He wasn’t a stranger to nightmares; he was mostly unaffected by them now but on bad days he’d sometimes dream about his descent in the Valkyrie, the Chitauri, Sokovia. It was clear to him that that was something else entirely to what Bucky was going through. He’d never found himself as worked up as he was now, trembling next to him. 

“Hey, you’re okay. It’ll be okay,” Steve coos at him, his voice quiet and even but still ample enough to reverberate throughout Bucky. He sniffles and tries to focus on the sound of Steve’s voice to push the ghosts of his nightmare out of his mind. 

“You want the light to stay on?” Steve asks as he gazes at light coming into the room, his door ajar. Bucky nods sheepishly. He’d quickly found that he needed some sort of light in the room to sleep comfortably. Though he understands that nothing’s actually there, complete darkness unnerves him. He sometimes feels daring and tries to go without it but quickly feels panic crescendo in his chest until he has to scramble to flip the lights on, eyes scanning the room just to make sure.

It takes a while, Steve doesn’t really try to keep track, but Bucky stills next to him. He listens to him breathe, this time being the one to sleeplessly stare at the ceiling. Know that he was aware that this was something he struggled with, he wanted to do everything he could to remedy it. He considered his options, trying to recall the decent amount of therapy he’d been to, until he found his eyes growing heavy, too.


	2. II

Bucky turns over, trying to ignore the way the sun filters through the thin blinds and onto his face. He keeps his eyes shut and sighs, knowing that he has to, unfortunately, get out of bed and get dressed. He wonders if Steve is already awake, sitting in the kitchen patiently waiting for him, and brightens a little at the thought. 

“What’s got you so happy?” Bucky jumps and opens his eyes to see that Steve isn’t in the kitchen, but right here watching him with soft reverence. And _then_ he remembers. The events of the night prior briefly flash through his mind, making his face flush with embarrassment. Not even registering whatever it was that Steve said, he sits up, groaning. With every ounce of his being he wishes he could vanish to spare himself from the shame of someone else, especially Steve, knowing how much he lets something as juvenile as dreams get to him. Enough to make him cry-- he wonders if Steve saw him crying and feels his stomach churn even more.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Steve sits up with him, quirking his head when he sees that Bucky’s face is buried into his arm, his knees to his chest. Bucky ignores him. Steve thinks he should’ve known; one of the constants about him was how unwilling he was to show what he perceived as weakness. He would hide his tears when he scraped his knees while they were playing as children and tended towards exuding an image of bravado when they got older. He definitely _has_ bravado, Steve thinks, he just doesn’t give himself enough slack.

“Bucky,” He says it softly, in the way that makes Bucky’s heart flutter. He damns himself for letting it flutter. “Look, I know you’re probably sore about last night. You don’t have to be, it’s not something to feel bad about. If you’re hurting, I want to help you,”

Bucky peeks up at him, incredulously. Steve smiles at him and instead of telling him that he doesn’t need help, Bucky notices how the morning sun frames him, plays off of every stray golden hair. It’s almost despicable how perfect this man is. He sighs and buries his face back into his arm, his voice coming out muffled. “It’s-- I don’t think you should have to deal with it.”

“I’m not dealing with anything, Buck. I love you,” It’s far from the first time he’s said it but it still manages to fluster Bucky every time, as if they were still on their first date. He says it with such sincerity that it makes his heart ache and he starts to feel bad for making him worry. ”That means I want you to be okay. I have nightmares, too. I think everyone does at some point.”

“You have them?” He glances up at him again, puzzled. He knows he’s not infallible but he just wouldn't have guessed. He can’t imagine Steve doing the things he does just about every night, but doesn’t really want to, either. Steve nods, pulling his knees up to mirror Bucky, laying his head down onto his arms to be level with him.

“Yeah, of course. It would be a miracle if I didn’t and the same goes for you. We’ve been through a lot, right?” Bucky considers it, studying his face and not seeing any iota of maliciousness or disgust. He just sees the same Steve he always has, placid blue eyes and a smile that could cure just about anything. The knots in his stomach undo themselves, slowly. He chews at the inside of his cheek and looks at him hesitantly. “You aren’t mad?” 

“I promise I’m not mad,” Steve says, his tone gentle but firm. Ever since he’d gotten Bucky back, he’d noticed that he was much more skittish about being punished. He expected it at every turn, flinching at things as mundane as accidentally dropping something to the ground. He’d constantly affirm that he wasn’t going to get yelled at by him or face whatever it was that HYDRA did to him and it made Steve wish that he could’ve killed every person responsible himself. “And I’ll never be mad at you for something you can’t control like that. It wouldn’t be fair of me, would it?”

Bucky shrugs. He finds he doesn’t fully understand what is and isn’t fair anymore, not after being essentially treated like an inanimate object for about seventy years. But he knows that Steve’s right in that he’d never do something unfair to Bucky. It’s almost overwhelming to be in the presence of someone as kind to him as he is, alien to what he’d learn to consider as normal.

“Then, I want…” He hesitates. He’s not allowed to want. Or, wasn’t allowed to want. It’s hard to keep track of what he is, isn’t, should, shouldn’t, can, can’t. He starts again, in a manner he deems more appropriate. “Can I sleep in here? With you?”

“Of course you can, Buck, I’d really love that,” He nods so enthusiastically that Bucky feels strangely self-conscious, unsure of why that would make Steve so happy. He’s genuine though, bordering overjoyed to finally see him being honest with himself. Months ago, he never would have relented to accepting any kind of help and now he was, in a roundabout way, asking for it. And of course, there’s a selfish part of Steve that’s eager to be able to sleep with his face buried in Bucky’s hair, arms around his waist. He imagines that would help with someone’s nightmares in some regard. Maybe.

“I’ll do everything I can to help you out, alright? I just love you so much, can I--” When Bucky nods he pulls him into a hug, pinning him down to the bed. Sometimes he wants to tell him to knock it off and stop asking if he can, something he started doing without actually being prompted to, but in the end he’s grateful for it. Bucky laughs into his neck and squeezes him, saying it much quieter but with just as much veneration, “I love you too.”

“I dunno if I kick or anything, though. So… sorry in advance,” He’s feels a cold pang of fear run through him, understanding that this means Steve will see the full brunt of how he reacts. He resolves that maybe Steve is what he’s been missing, the thing to make it all stop. Or at least be manageable. He’d be okay with just manageable, he decides. And even if the worst did happen… Steve promised he’d never get mad, so he wouldn’t be mad, he hopes. Steve crosses his arms over Bucky’s chest and sets his head there, thinking about the possibility of being kicked out of bed and awake.

“Aw, it’s fine, I’ve taken way worse from you,” He playfully grins at him and Bucky chuckles. He used to feel awful about pummelling him, but figured they were pretty much even now. And in Steve’s mind, it was absolutely worth getting pummelled if that’s what made him remember who he was. In one quick motion and a flurry of blankets, Bucky wraps his arm around him and flips him onto his back, climbing atop him and pinning one of his arms above his head. Steve cocks an eyebrow at him, interest piqued.

“I’ll show you _way worse_ , Rogers,” He leans down and smothers his face in kisses, Steve tittering underneath him, bringing his free hand up in a gesture of mock surrender. The chaste kisses cover the exposed skin of his neck, his cheeks, his jaw. He can’t help but giggle himself, eventually relenting. He sits back and contemplates his deference, enjoying the sight of Steve’s blue eyes contrasted by his flushed face. He could spend all day doing this and more, but he thinks it’d probably be best to actually get out of bed before noon. Finally he decides: “I’ll take it easy on you if you carry me to the shower.”

“Oh, I better get going then,” Steve laughs, letting Bucky roll off of him and standing up to easily scoop him up into his arms. He finds it funny to think that it used to be that only Bucky could do that to _him_ (and often did, sometimes to his chagrin). Despite the many cons to the changes both of them had faced, he definitely considers this a pro that makes it worth it. Before bringing them both there he gives Bucky a sincere kiss that makes him bury his face into the crook of his neck, blushing. _No fair_ , Bucky thinks. 

* * *

The next day Steve comes home, a couple of bags of groceries in each arm. Bucky watches from the couch as he piles them onto the kitchen counter. They'd normally gone shopping together but Bucky had opted to stay home and laze around, his attention finally settling on a nature documentary that was comfortably devoid of any death or guns or, really, anything as intense as what was normally on TV. Steve, for once, was perfectly happy leaving him home. He wanted the gift he'd gotten him to be a surprise; hopefully a good one. 

“I got you something,” Steve sets them down on the counter and digs through the assortment of what he’d picked up, mostly food, Bucky watching a little more interestedly. He fishes out a small-ish purple box, holding it up and lightly tossing it. Bucky easily catches it and turns it over in his hands, reading aloud. 

“Moon and stars LED night l...” Bucky looks at the oblong piece of plastic illustrated on the middle of the box, little stars of varying sizes and a moon cut out of it. The backing illustrated pink and purple stars projected onto a ceiling and advertised ‘continuous changing colors’ and ‘auto on when dark’. He cocks his head at Steve. “You got me a night light?”

“You seemed like you wanted the lights on earlier, so I guess I just assumed that was something that made you feel a little safer.” Steve walks over, gazing down at the box from behind him. He can’t see Bucky’s face and worries that his silence in this context means he’s offended that Steve would buy him something that’s essentially for children. “If you don’t like it I can--”

“No,” Bucky traces a finger along one of the stars on the box. He doesn’t remember mentioning it to him, but in general he tended to not remember much of what he did after scaring himself awake. He was right on the mark, though, always being able to read Bucky startlingly well. “Why stars?”

“Well, it was either that or one shaped like a dinosaur. I wasn’t sure about how you felt about dinosaurs so I went with stars.” There was also one shaped like Ironman’s mask but he figured it would probably be best to… not mention that. Ever.

Bucky smiles a little, shaking his head. “Maybe liked ‘em when I was six.”

“But, are you sure it won’t keep you up? I’d feel bad if it did,” It feels strange to just accept a gift without making sure it’s really okay. He knows it’s not the case now but it wasn’t all too uncommon for STRIKE agents to offer him niceties only to take them away and punish him for thinking of himself as more than a tool. He’s interested to see how it looks and is flattered Steve went to the trouble of getting it for him but is still unnerved by that ingrained fear. 

“Don’t worry about me; a bed and my best guy next to me is all I need to get to sleep.” Steve grins at Bucky ducking his head a little at the term of endearment. “It’ll be like when we were younger, remember? When we--”

“We’d sneak out to Prospect Park and watch the stars,” Bucky easily finishes the sentence for him. Though he still found himself unable to remember entire gaps of his life, the wipes seemingly permanently taking those memories from him, he’s still able to recall a few things from when they were younger. He’d hastily described them in the journals he’d kept with him for fear of losing them, but they seemed as if they were here to stay, not in danger of another wipe. He damns himself for not being able to perfectly envision every intimate moment between the two but knows it’s unreasonable. Steve did most of his remembering for him now, anyways. “‘Course I remember.”

“It’s too bad you can’t see the stars from there now,” Steve watches Bucky drum his fingers on the box, guessing he doesn’t want to open it without asking first. He cocks his head in response. He didn’t realize you _couldn’t_ see the stars now. He hadn’t been back, not ready to see whatever palpable changes had gone on yet. He was unsure of if he’d ever really be ready to see how the world has changed around him while he was there but not really _there_.

“Too many lights everywhere else, I think. I’d spent some time back home to see everything again and I,” He laughs a little, embarrassed. Something about Bucky just made him want to bare it all, he guessed. “I went back to our special spot. I guess the stars weren’t what mattered, though. It didn’t really feel right because you weren’t with me.”

“You’re real sentimental nowadays, Stevie,” Bucky tries to deflect the unmistakable butterflies in his stomach and throws his head back to look up at him. Steve shrugs and brings a hand up to push Bucky’s hair back and before he can open his mouth to ask he nods. He was secretly glad he’d let it grow out so long, expressly because of how much he liked absentmindedly playing with it. 

“Yeah, I guess so.” Being with Bucky felt like being right where he belonged, but it was still a little strange to just have him back after so long. He was used to morosely thinking about him while trying to sleep or flying out to wherever it was he was needed. He sometimes felt stuck in the past but got the impression that Bucky was trying to do everything to move past it, not without reason. “We can make new memories now.”

Bucky looks away, distractedly pushing his hair behind his ear. Plenty unraveled him nowadays but nothing faster than how willingly Steve would say things so sickeningly sweet. He’d secretly made it a game in his own mind, seeing how he could make Bucky blush or look away just with words of adoration and right now he’s smiling triumphantly. “How about making some about unloading all of this groceries.” 

“Sounds good to me. I was looking around and found these things called pluots. I have no idea what they are but I think you’d like them. Here, lemme find them,” He gives Bucky a kiss on the forehead before going back to the kitchen counter to empty the bags splayed out there. Bucky turns around and watches after him, brain not registering what exactly he’s saying about fruit. He shakes the box a little, feeling the light rattle around. A nightlight. He thinks he should feel indignant about it, but finds he can only be excited at the prospect of being able to sleep without keeping the bright bathroom light on. 

“Thanks, Steve.” 

* * *

Bucky wasn’t cured, but he was certainly more comfortable. He found himself falling asleep easier tucked close next to Steve with the little projections of stars slowly changing colors above them. Steve had read what he could about helping someone after waking up from nightmares and found that recounting the year, place and who he was to Bucky worked best to sooth his initial panic. 2018, Virginia, Bucky Barnes. From there he’d assure him they were safe, tell him to count the stars on the ceiling to calm down, whatever easy thing he could think of that would get his mind off of whatever it was he’d just dreamt about. 

And he wouldn’t tell Bucky because he knew exactly how he would react, but he _did_ kick. He’d sometimes be woken up by it, sitting and listening to him mumble or seeing him fidget. He didn’t like having to let it happen but figured that waking him up in the middle of dreaming about being the Winter Soldier would make him inadvertently violent. He knew Bucky would never forgive himself so instead he’d just wait to see if it would pass or wake him up. It broke his heart to have to hear it but at least took solace in the fact that it only seemed to happen semi-frequently. He had no idea if that was more or less than what it was before, but was thankful that he wasn’t haunted by nightmares every waking night.

It was slightly less than what Bucky had grown to become used to but it didn’t help to soothe the content of his dreams. He knew it was unreasonable, but he was frustrated to find that his dreams were still as vivid and explicit as they were before. Not being consumed by anxiety helped him going into sleep but certainly not coming out of it. He appreciates everything Steve does to soothe him but it still feels almost hopeless, like it’ll always plague him. He just hopes he’ll somehow get used to it.

* * *

He jerks awake, his heart pounding in his chest. It takes a moment of uneven gasping and staring at the ceiling to rationalize that he wasn’t in Germany, that he was in bed, that the faint glow in his peripheral vision wasn’t fire or sterile hospital lights but a nightlight. He stares at the ceiling, paralyzed, waiting for his senses to fully return to him. He feels Steve stir some next to him and remembers 2018, Virginia, Bucky Barnes. Not 1945 or 1963 or 2014, not Germany or Russia, not the asset, not a prisoner. 

He feels his hair matted to his head, his body slick with sweat, his pulse thrumming in his ears and chest. And he feels the warmth that envelopes his lower half. It takes his brain a second to understand what that unfamiliar but familiar warmth means and in the second following that he’s jumping out of bed, nearly ripping the covers off of a now roused Steve. He gapes in horror at the dark spot that’d bloomed on his side of the bed, matching the ones that enveloped his sweatpants and peeked at the bottom of his shirt. He sees how close it is to Steve’s side of the bed, that it’s on the cover that rests atop him, and he feels so dizzy he wonders if he might pass out. He’d be thankful for it if he did, unconsciousness at least a respite from the horror that was enveloping him now.

He feels like a wild animal, only raw emotion coursing through his mind, no thoughts or words accessible to him. He wants to jump out of the window, he wants to run out the door, he wants to lock himself in the bathroom and never come out. Every part of him wants to go a different way, away from what he’s done, but he can’t will his legs to move him from where he stands at the side of the bed. He feels hopeless, aware that there’s no way to escape what he’s done. He’s not sure when he’d started, if he was crying when he woke up as he sometimes did, but he was going at it full force now, chest heaving. So hard he feels like he might be sick, the idea of adding vomit to the bed that he’d already wet makes him somehow feel sicker.

“Bu-- Bucky?” Steve sits up, blinking at Bucky. He has no idea what’s happening but quickly understands when he sees Bucky, his pants dark and sticking to his body, crying in a way so free of pretenses and aghast that it makes Steve feel nauseous. He glances at the wet spot next to him and it all makes sense; _this_ was why he didn’t want to sleep with Steve, _this_ was what he was afraid of. Before he can ask him if he’s alright or, really, do anything, Bucky’s suddenly more verbose than he has been in a long, long time.

“I’m so, so, sorry Steve, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I-I didn’t want this to happen and now, and it’s, I,” He’s barely able to speak, nearly hyperventilating. He gives up, knowing in his mind that there are no apologies genuine or potent enough to express how humiliated he is. He starts to prepare for the worst and he can already hear someone yelling at him, calling him disgusting, making him clean it up and punishing him for days and days. Worse than that he can imagine being laughed at because of how ridiculous he looks, in his wet clothes like a child crying at their bedside for their mom to come take care of them. His head spins, his eyes shut so tight he sees pinpricks of light. He can’t imagine Steve being the one to say any of these things, hearing Rumlow or Rollins or Pierce in his place, but nonetheless braces himself.

“Hey, hey, hey-- Buck, Bucky, you’re okay, it’s alright,” Steve tosses his covers off and rushes out of bed to stand in front of Bucky, blocking his view of the soiled bed. He’s unsure of what exactly he should be doing, any sense momentarily flying out the window at seeing Bucky in near hysterics, but he figures getting him cleaned up and calmed down would be most important. He reaches a hand out but doesn’t touch him, afraid of scaring him even more. Now that Steve’s before him, his hiccuping breaths are still audible but his sobs have been smothered, quieter. Steve guesses it’s because his presence makes him feel better, but in actuality he’s been ordered to be quiet and stop crying so many times that he instinctively tries to keep himself from being too loud. His body is tense, awaiting the sobering blow that always comes whenever he cries. Whenever he _cried_. He desperately reminds himself: 2018, Virginia, Bucky Barnes.

“Here, come on pal,” He takes a step towards the bathroom, trying to lead Bucky there. He’s not sure he’s even listening, much less watching; his head is craned downward, his hair covering his face like a matted curtain. His shoulders are shaking slightly, tears slipping down his cheeks, and Steve acts without thinking, his brain focused only on making him stop. The way he takes hold of his wrist is gentle but insistent, firm. 

Bucky doesn’t jump at the touch but turns his head to gaze at where Steve was holding him. He studies his wrist and bare arm, unable to bring himself to follow the length of it up his shoulder to look him in the face. Steve squeezes him a little, urging him to focus. “Let’s go to the bathroom, okay? We’ll get you cleaned up, alright? Does that sound good?”

“Steve,” His voice is low, barely above a whisper. His throat is raw, but he’s more afraid of breaking out into a heaving sob than his voice coming out hoarse. He still can’t see Steve’s face but sees that he turns his body away from the bathroom to face him, attentive. Worried. It only makes Bucky’s face hotter to have his full attention. 

“You shouldn’t be acting so… I mean, I shouldn’t just be allowed to,” He groans, frustrated. “You should be mad. Stop pretending you ain’t.” 

Steve feels a hot flare of anger surge in his stomach, not necessarily because of Bucky himself but more so at what had made it so he thought this way. At HYDRA. He recovers quickly but for a fraction of a second he wants to hold Bucky’s face between his hands and tell him that he’d never be mad at him over and over until he believed it, _really_ believed it. He knows that’s not the way to help, so he opts to squeeze his wrist. 

“I’m not, Bucky. On my mom’s life, I’m not mad at you. I’ll never, ever be mad at you, okay?” Bucky doesn’t respond, meekly sniffling. As much as he wants to think he’s just trying to make him stop crying, ‘ _on my mom’s life_ ’ strikes him. How could he not be mad at him, he thinks. Anyone would be spitting mad and for Steve to readily forgive him felt… not wrong, but strange. He certainly felt as if he didn’t deserve that sort of special treatment. 

“I don’t know if you believe that but it’s absolutely the truth. I know you’re hurting and I would never add to that hurt. I want to do everything I can to take that hurt away. You didn’t mean to do any of this and it isn’t your fault, not at all. You’re a good man, Bucky, and you always have been.” And finally, Bucky crumbles. Tears come again and he can’t pinpoint why but knows it’s not from anger, frustration or embarrassment. Steve’s voice wavers at the sight but he resolves to finish his thought, grounding him with another squeeze. “I just wanna help you, alright? You’re not gonna deal with this alone. I’m right here and I always will be.”

Bucky staggers forward, falling into Steve’s arms. He buries his face into him, trying to minimize his sobs. He can’t see, but above him Steve’s eyes are dewy, too. He wasn’t normally a frustrated crier but between seeing Bucky’s own distress and insistence that he was subhuman drove him past the point where he could continue to be completely collected. He cups the back of Bucky’s head with one of his hands, fingers threading through sweaty hair. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, muffled and weak. Steve pulls away from their hug and places a hand on both of his shoulders, trying to look him in the eye. Unsurprisingly, Bucky doesn’t oblige and casts his eyes down. Steve opts to lean forward, bumping their foreheads together. He thinks he understands what Bucky wants to hear, even if he understands everything else he’d said. “I forgive you.” 

It’s so quiet that it’s almost inaudible, but Bucky thanks him alongside a curt nod. Steve takes a step back, relieved to see Bucky hesitantly looking up at him from under his hair with red eyes. He wants to squeeze him into a hug so tight that it would crush a normal person, but he remembers the situation at hand after surveying the rest of Bucky and decides that could wait for later.

“You gonna want help in the shower?” Steve figures that’s the best way to gently remind Bucky that he’s standing in soaked sweatpants. He was glad to have some form of heart to heart but figured they could have it after he got cleaned everything and Bucky up. Bucky shakes his head and tries to glance at the bed still partially blocked from his view. “You should prob’ly deal with that.” 

Steve makes quick work of stripping the bed of it’s sheets and blankets, carrying them in armfuls alongside Bucky’s clothes to the laundry room. He listens to the monotonous sounds of water filling the washing machine and ruminates on what the next best step for Bucky would be. He knows he can only help him so much, that most of recovery is in the hands of the one recovering. It was an obstacle being one of about two people alive that Bucky willingly spent time around and regarded kindly (semi-kindly in Sam’s case) and the only one that he truly bared himself to. He cherished the knowledge of that trust in him, but knew he was powerless to _really_ help him. He could stop wars and fight aliens but wasn’t sure where to begin in regards to administering therapy.

Upon returning to the bedroom and examining the stained mattress he realizes that he doesn’t actually know how to cure a mattress of a stain of that variety. Or any variety, actually. While he hurriedly Googles and gathers baking soda and vinegar, Bucky stands idly in the shower, mind tired and numb. Mortification had settled at the pit of his stomach as soon as he’d woken up, and he knew it wouldn’t go away easily. He wonders what HYDRA would have done if he’d ever wet himself while in their captivity and finds himself grateful that Steve hadn’t reacted in any shade similar. ‘ _You’re a good man, Bucky_ ’ reverberates through his mind and makes him hug himself. He didn’t want to believe it, but Steve sure as hell wasn’t a liar. 

He opens the door to see Steve sprinkling baking soda onto the mattress and feels a new wave of shame wash over him. He gleans that the clock on his side of the bed reads 3:23AM and remembers how exhausted he is, sure that poor Steve must be feeling the same way. He’d have to do something huge for him as a proper apology, he thinks. Maybe buy him a new mattress. 

“Sorry about your bed,” He offers weakly. Steve shrugs, unworried. Pee was by far the least problematic stain he’d ever had to remove from a belonging of his. The process was tedious but seemed to have worked well enough for how haphazardly he’d done it. He was honestly too tired to pay too much attention to it and knew he would probably regret it in the morning.

“I don’t mind. We can just sleep in yours for the rest of tonight and tomorrow,” He crosses the room to look through the dresser for something that Bucky can throw on before going back to bed. Bucky doesn’t like the prospect of trying to go to sleep again very much but knows Steve would be disappointed if he opted to sit tirelessly in the living room. He figures he at least owes _trying_ to him, even if he has a feeling he’ll just lie awake regardless. And if anything, he’s too tired and resigned to put up a fight. He takes the sweater and a pair of sweats that Steve hands to him in a neatly folded pile and unceremoniously puts them on, fabric sticking to his still wet skin.

“Here Buck,” Steve steps forward and takes the towel from him, bringing it to his head to tousle his hair from soaking to damp. Bucky readily lets him, laughing a little. Steve figures they don’t need to go and get the pillows of Bucky’s bed wet to match the mattress of his own. He tosses the towel into the bathroom’s hamper, flicking the light off and starting to make his way to the door to settle down in Bucky’s room. He stops when he doesn’t hear the sound of Bucky following and turns around to see him standing in the same place, gazing at him. He points to the nightlight stilled plugged into the wall, peppering the ceiling and walls in stars. 

“Oh, how could I forget?” Steve retrieves it and drops it into Bucky’s hands, watching as he turns it over, feeling it’s residual warmth from being on for God knows how long. He guesses he should probably get some more for the other rooms, just in case, and mentally adds it to the shopping list he’s created in his head that also includes a mattress protector. He guides him out of the room, throwing one last glance at the now drying bed before turning off the lights and closing the door behind them. 

They’re settled down again, Steve watching Bucky study the stars on the wall as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. He’s not curled into him like he normally does but they’re still close, hips and shoulders touching. Even though his wounds are slightly salted at Steve putting down towels ‘just in case’, he needs the reassurance of his weight next to him. He’s staring at the wall to avoid having to catch his gaze, his ego still very, very sore. 

Next to him Steve is turning over ways to broach the subject of Bucky getting help in his mind, trying to figure out how to approach it in a way that wouldn’t make him upset. He can’t force him, would never force him to do anything, but knows it would be the best thing to do for him. When they were younger, it was Steve who was thoughtless about his own wellbeing and now it was Bucky who would forget his basic needs and dismiss things pertinent to improving his quality of life. Steve breathes in, eight seconds, and then out.

“I’ve been thinking; maybe we should talk about you going to some kinda doctor again,” Steve tries to present it as casually as he can, like he’s asking about going to the store or what the weather will be like. Next to him Bucky stiffens a little and doesn’t answer, face still turning away just a fraction more. Steve furrows his brows, looking at the back of his damp head. 

“I could go with you, if that’s what you want.” He offers, trying to understand what it is that has Bucky so abhorred with the concept of it. It seemed like the one thing he was adamant about not doing, the only time his response wasn’t a shrug and ‘I don’t mind’. Did HYDRA give him some sort of fucked up therapy? Was he just embarrassed about having to admit that he has feelings? He’s almost startled to hear Bucky’s voice, thick with hesitancy. 

“I just,” Bucky isn’t sure he can explain _why_ he doesn’t want to go in a succinct way. The idea of having to sit down and explain how he feels and what was done to him makes him feel skittish, like a caged animal. Even with Steve there, there’d be a third party, a stranger, and the prospect of that turns him away from the whole concept. There were things he hadn’t even told Steve, some things he never, ever wanted to say out loud or reveal to anyone, even if that meant getting better. Some of it was wanting to preserve some sense of dignity, wanting to spare himself any further humiliation. Most of it, though, was fear, plain and simple. He was tired of doctors and sterile environments where he had to be submissive and pliant. 

“I just can’t, I’m sorry. I still can’t.” He wants to beat his head against the wall in frustration but balls his fist up instead. Steve sees the gesture of exasperation and gingerly puts his own hand atop it. He’s glad he brought it up, if only to understand where Bucky was in that regard, but still feels a twinge bad. He’d figure out another way to help him, he guessed. It was a daunting idea but he’s sure there’s something he can find that would work to help him let out his excess stress and anxiety in place of visits to therapy. It would just take a little while to figure out what that thing could be. 

“Hey, that’s okay, just askin’ is all. I just wanted to let you know that you don’t gotta deal with all of this alone,” Steve gives his hand a squeeze and is happy to feel Bucky splay his fingers out, letting Steve thread his own through the spaces in between them. There’s silence again and he guesses it’s the end of the conversation, neither of them really wanting to push it any farther. 

“I’m not alone.” Bucky takes his eyes off of the wall and focuses them on steve, resolute. Steve blinks at him, surprised at the interjection. This was the only time he hadn’t felt alone in seventy years, when he was with Steve or even just alive and privy to the knowledge that Steve was too. As long as Steve was here, Bucky knew that things would somehow resolve themselves and end up okay. As long as Steve was here, Bucky wasn’t ever truly alone. “I have you, so...”

“Aw, Buck…” Steve turns onto his side to really admire him, smiling. He knew Bucky loved him but he tended to have trouble vocalizing it, so every admission like that made it feel like fireworks were going off in his heart. But he was right; he’d never let Bucky be alone again. Regardless of what the future held, he’d do everything in his power to never lose him. He was glad Bucky didn’t second guess that much. ‘End of the line’ and all. 

“Don’t get all soft,” Bucky’s retroactively embarrassed at the tenderness of his statement but nonetheless he rolls onto his side to mirror Steve, glad to have some relief from stiffly craning his neck. The absence of his arm was no real improvement to his life but he was secretly okay with the byproduct of not having to worry about his left arm going numb while lying on that side. 

“You _looo-o-o-ve_ me, Bucky Barnes,” He teases in a sing-song voice, fluttering his eyelashes at him. Bucky squints at him, a smile forming at the corner of his mouth. Through everything that the both of them had been through one thing was still very clear: Steve Rogers always has been and always will be a punk. 

“Yeah, whatever,” He closes the gap between them and nuzzles into Steve, who easily wraps an arm around him, pulling him closer. They fit together like puzzle pieces, perfectly made to be close to one another. Being so comfortable makes Bucky realize how heavy his eyes are and he begrudgingly acquiesces, closing them to try and sleep. A pang of anxiety about the possibility of _it_ happening again runs through him when he does, but it’s smothered by Steve. 

“We’ll figure it out,” He’s sure of that, at least, even if he’s unsure of how. As much as he wants to try and create a comprehensive list of things they could try in his mind, he hears his own school PSA remind him ‘ _after a busy day of school, going to sports practice and playing with friends, every kid needs to sleep_ ’. He settles into Bucky and gives him a light kiss on the head before trying to focus on not focusing on anything to drift off. Bucky does his best to do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god only knows how long other chapters will take but hopefully someone somewhere likes this lol ;_;


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: mentions of past sexual assault/abuse (tried to keep it vague cause the point of this isnt really to describe triggers in detail)

When Steve steps in front of the TV with armfuls of art supplies, Bucky furrows his brows annoyedly. Effectively obstructing Bucky’s view of the program showcasing how bassoons are made and ignoring the impatient huff he lets out, he carefully sets everything he has down on the coffee table, making sure to take his time. There’s a slim wooden box with sleek metal handles, two well sized pads of paper and a tub filled with miscellaneous pens, pencils and crayons. Bucky eyes the items splayed out before him blankly then refocuses his attention to the boyfriend shaped obstruction before him.

“Wanna draw with me?” Steve innocently beams at him, ignoring the irritation apparent on Bucky’s face. He understands the feeling but he’s been sitting there, bundled up with his knees to his chest, watching TV all day. It was a few nights ago that he’d had his accident, but Steve had a feeling that that was why Bucky didn’t bother doing much of anything. He could tell he was hurting, that he was purposefully trying to keep himself from sleep, and it made him feel a mix of frustration and sympathy. 

He knew that his view on getting therapy wouldn’t change any time soon, so the day after it’d happened he’d gotten to reading about ways he could aid in Bucky’s recovery without trying to play armchair psychiatrist. In particular he took a shining to the types of therapy that centered around creativity and self expression and figured it wouldn’t hurt to try out art therapy. In his mind, it wouldn’t just be helping him get his feelings out, it would be something the two of them could bond over. Though he never really considered it therapy, it’s something he himself does subconsciously, doodling on napkins and scraps of paper when he’s stressed or in need of something to do with his hands. 

It was only after settling down that he’d decided to pursue art as a real hobby again. Bucky would sometimes sit with him when he did, watching with noted interest as he sketched or painted. Landscapes were what he tended to default to, whatever he saw from the window or places he’d been that he could remember the smallest details of with perfect clarity. Though he hadn’t spent an overabundant amount of time there, he had an ample amount of recreations of Wakanda because of Bucky’s affinity for it. He’d never ask Steve to draw him something specific, of course, but he could tell that those were his favorite by the way he sat forward ever so slightly and grinned at the finished product. Steve’s favorite subject is Bucky, from any time or at any place, but he feels somehow bashful at the idea of showing him any of those drawings. 

Bucky hums, considering it. Any time with Steve is time he values, but he’s also very interested in watching the process of how copper cookware is made. He makes a mental note to look up how the bassoon segment ended. “Why?”

“I want to see if it could maybe help you deal with how you’re feelin’,” Steve reckons he could lie and say ‘ _ oh, just because _ ’, but… Captain America can’t really lie, especially not to his best guy. Bucky crinkles his nose, baring obvious distaste at the sentiment.

“I don’t...” He manages to bite back his response as remembers what Steve had said before, ‘ _ I just wanna help you, alright? You’re not gonna deal with this alone.’  _ He’s still embarrassed at Steve seeing him so vulnerable, emotionally and physically, but resolves that he should at least try. It just wouldn’t be fair of him to have a tantrum when all he wants to help. Steve has always shown him that overabundance of kindness and in return he figures that was the least he could do. He tries to rationalize to himself that it’s not an exceedingly uncomfortable situation, anyways. It’s just them, alone, in their living room. He can definitely manage that, he thinks. Just draw some flowers and a smiling sun. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Relenting, he slides lazily from the couch to the floor after throwing one final longing look to the TV. Steve excitedly settles down across from him, pushing a pad in front of Bucky. To his left the wooden box with a brand name he doesn’t recognize stamped across the front and to his right the tub of well used supplies. Steve reaches for the wooden one first, eager to get started.

“Here, you can use these,” He opens the wooden box to reveal two tiers of things Bucky can only identify as fancy pencils. There are at least 60 of them, laid out next to each other, not pristine but clearly cared for. He doesn’t see any actual colors at the tips, just white, grey and black in what he guesses are varying shades, because it all looks the same to him. He also observes an eraser, sticks of black stuff, sticks of not black stuff and something that looks like a completely white pencil sharpened at both ends. Bucky gapes at him.

“Oooor these.” He takes the lid off of the tub of things easily identifiable as colored pencils, pens and crayons. Bucky hesitates, not because it’s a hard choice, but because he doesn’t know which choice is the right one, the one he’s  _ supposed  _ to pick. Steve easily recognizes the way Bucky sits still, mind stalling and plucks a pencil from the tub to his right. It seemed like Bucky tended to do better when he didn’t have to be the first to do something and had someone to use as a model or example. He makes a mental note to see how they can work on his independent decision making later on. “Whichever you like better, Buck. I brought ‘em all out here for a reason.”

He curtly nods and blindly fishes out a red crayon, worn but not a little nub just yet. He studies it for a second before noticing the way Steve’s looking at him, a little half smile on his face.

“I’m-- I’m only using this so I don’t mess up your good stuff.” He says defensively, warmth rising to his cheeks. Crayons are the safest choice, but he feels a little juvenile holding one as an adult, feeling especially small clutched between his vibranium fingers. He’d feel bad breaking a crayon because of the sometimes unwieldy strength of his arm but he’d feel even worse if he broke any one of those expensive looking sticks of whatever the hell.

“I didn’t say nothin’.” Steve thinks it’s cute, the dichotomy of his lethal arm and the crayon that he holds like it’s made out of glass. In truth he didn’t really care what tools he used so long as he got to drawing. He could always buy more if anything were to happen to them, anyways. Before he can press his own pencil to paper, Bucky interjects.

“What am I supposed to draw?” Another choice that he’s not sure he can make on his own. He’s genuinely lost, unaware of what exactly Steve is asking of him. 

“You’re not  _ supposed  _ to draw anything. It’s about expressing how you’re feeling, so you can draw whatever you want, even if it’s just shapes or scribbles. Just draw what’s on your mind.” He tries to explain it as simply as he can. It’s a fairly easy concept to grasp, Steve thinks, but Bucky still seems unsure about the aspect of doing something without direction. “You can just watch me at first if you want. But there’s no wrong way to do it.”

Bucky watches the way his pencil flows effortlessly across the paper for a few minutes for ducking his head down and getting to work on something of his own. Steve doesn’t peek, not wanting to spook him, but internally cheers at the sight of it. He doesn’t speak as he carefully covers the page, the silence between them occupied by whatever was on TV now. Steve doesn’t have much on his mind and defaults to something easy; a flower he saw in passing at the New York Botanical Garden years ago. 

He’s caught off guard when the other pad bumps into his, wordlessly pushed across the table. Bucky’s looking at him expectantly, almost excitedly. In truth, Steve expected a jumble of scribbles or maybe a kitten but instead he’s faced with something he needs to take a moment to decipher. Through the harsh criss crossing lines and overlapping colors he can recognize the vague shape of a chair. Like a dentist’s chair but more ominous, strange instruments protruding from the sides and restrains on the armrests. 

“Is this a special chair?” He tries to pose the question delicately, not wanting to offend him by asking what exactly it was or forcing him to clam up by prodding too much.

“It’s,” It was the first thing that came to mind. He wasn’t sure why, but it was. It felt like every time he was left alone to think, his thoughts slowly drifted back to his time as the Asset. With effort he could quickly dismiss them, but other times it just didn’t feel possible, his brain replaying everything with excruciating detail. He feels himself drifting off like that now and tries to shrug it off. “They’d wipe me here ‘n stuff.”

“‘And stuff’? What kinda stuff?” Nothing good, he knew that much. He sees him mull over the question for a moment, passive discomfort flickering over his face. 

“Mm. Here,” Bucky crawls around the table and settles down next to Steve, who tries to scoot over some as an accommodation. Their legs are touching regardless, but from what he can tell, he doesn’t mind the contact. He’s actually been a touch more physical lately, to Steve’s delight. Small things like being allowed to put an arm around him while watching movies made him thrill with excitement like a teenager again. He reaches over Steve, determination apparent on his face. All of his attention is being thrown into whatever it is he’s drawing now, hunched over and bracing himself on his right arm. He’s got renewed fervor, the sound of the crayons tapping on paper loud in Steve’s ears. 

After a short while, he sits up and presents the pad to Steve so he can get a clear look. This one’s, unfortunately, much easier for him to comprehend. On the left side is Bucky’s depiction of himself, a crudely drawn figure with brown scribbles of long hair and a silver arm with a red star; his old arm. His face bears an exaggeratedly sad frown accentuated with tears. To Steve it’s an unsettlingly childlike drawing, the way it's drawn bearing a sort of innocence or disconnect with the details of what happened. Along the body of the figure are red dashes of varying lengths. He wants to hope that they aren't stab wounds but ultimately knows they are. It’s something, the beginning of him opening up whether he knows it or not, so Steve presses on through the sinking feeling in his stomach. “That’s you? And you’re sad?” 

“‘N hurt.” Bucky affirms and taps a finger on the red dashes. He can’t say much, doesn't really want to, and hopes that what he drew got the point across well enough. Part of him feels like a lame dog, afraid of what will happen if he does explain what he’s feeling, why that’s what he drew. He knows that he’s about to unplug a dam and is doing it anyways, for some reason he can’t exactly place. 

Steve nods and looks at what’s inhabiting the space on the right. It’s another person, one he can't identify, with short dark hair and a cartoonish knife in one hand. From what he can tell, it’s a STRIKE member, the yellow and green apparent on his sleeve. His face is the antithesis of Bucky’s; a wide, toothy grin. Something about it makes the hair on the back of Steve’s neck prickle.

“And that’s…?” Steve cranes his neck to try and make eye contact but Bucky is transfixed on the drawing before them. He’s tense, his hands in his lap and his arm whirring lightly. Steve leans into him some. He can tell that he’s starting to get upset and doesn’t want to push it. “You don’t hafta tell me if you don’t–” 

“There were lots of ‘em,” He stares at the paper, but not really  _ at _ the paper. His brain feels strung up like fairy lights, hazy and unfocused on the present. It’s as if he’s nearly somewhere else entirely, back in that chair or being led to a room to be subjected to some kind of…

In reality it was torture, that's what anyone else would call it. That's what Steve called it when he briefly mentioned it before. Regardless, Bucky tended to shy away from the word, even when no one could hear him. He understood that none of what happened to him was in any way a kindness but the way his captors tried to cajole him into a false sense of security ping ponged around his head. 

“It could be worse. That’s what they said when they’d,” He still can’t force it out, indignation burning at his face. Something in him wants to run away and hide, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to tell Steve anything, but he  _ wants  _ to. He wants to hear from someone else that it wasn’t his fault. None of it was his fault, Steve had said it over and over. But this wasn’t about being forced to kill people or steal intel. “Some of them...” 

“If it hurts you don’t gotta talk about it, Bucky. No one’s making you,” He can see how worked up he’s getting and, as much as he wants Bucky to be honest with himself, he doesn’t want to see him have a panic attack. He understands the implications fully well and he has to stifle the anger at HYDRA that wells up in him, knowing he has to be to care for Bucky first and foremost. He knew it was bad, but knowing exactly how bad it really was is something else entirely. “It’s okay, alright?”

“It hurts lots,” And finally, tears come. He barely manages to get the words out before falling into a sob. He wraps his arms around Steve and buries his face into the crook of his neck. Steve’s surprised but quickly reciprocates and squeezes him, a way to physically remind him that he was secure. Before he can say something, anything, to try and calm him down more disjointed thoughts come tumbling out of Bucky.

“I had to,” He’s saying it more to himself than Steve.

“I didn’t wanna say nothin’ ‘cause of,” There were a lot of reasons. It was always a potent mixture of humiliation and embarrassment that made him hold his tongue and swear to himself that he’d never tell anyone, even if they’d asked, even if it was Steve. But he was more comfortable with the prospect of Steve knowing now that they’d been together longer, the highway and Triskelion far behind them. He wasn’t necessarily  _ comfortable  _ at the moment, tears threatening to fall from his eyes, but something felt cathartic about it. “Because it’s so...”

“I feel all twisted up inside,” He was strong and bold, and he wasn’t supposed to let things like that happen to him. That’s what he’d always told himself every time he’d be ripped awake by dreams about those specific forms of violation, hopelessly trying to force himself to just  _ get over it _ .  _ ‘Get over it, stop your whining.’  _ He wanted to try and be what he perceived as strong by never mentioning it, acting as if what had happened to him hadn’t really bothered him, didn’t even happen. He didn’t have a say in anything that had happened to him, but he still felt a sense of shame, as if he could have somehow gotten the gumption to stop it from happening at all. Looking back on what he could recall, which was still all too much, he almost felt like a voyeur watching someone who looked like him being hurt. It was him, but not  _ really  _ him. He was programmed to be pliant, no say in anything that had happened, no individuality or discernable personality. Ready to comply. 

But what he was beginning to understand was that no one was expecting him to be stoic about it but himself. Steve encouraged him to always be honest about his feelings, to tell him if he ever needed anything or wanted help. He wasn’t captive anymore and he didn’t have to stifle tears for fear of being punished, no one was threatening his well being for keening. He was strong for having survived it and overcoming everything despite the odds, but he didn’t have to pretend that it didn’t hurt him, that he wasn’t conflicted and lost and, more than anything, scared.

“You’re safe now and nothing’s ever gonna happen to you again, Buck. I promise.” Steve rubs circles on his back, trying to calm him down. The way his hiccuping sobs feel against his neck make his heart fall apart and all he wants to do is show him that he’s okay. Bucky clings to Steve like a life preserver, the only thing keeping him from coming completely unraveled.

“I’m sorry,” It’s all he can say, the coherent thought his brain can muster. He’s grounded some by the way Steve feels in his grasp, but still panicked. He’d done everything he could to avoid thinking about, much less talking about what had happened to him outside of cryo and facing that was a hard pill to swallow. He’s thankful Steve isn’t voicing disgust, even if knows it would be unreasonable for him to do so in the first place. Even still he feels like a burden, unloading something this heavy onto Steve. “I’m really, really sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” It feels like he’s said it a hundred times by now, but he’d say it a thousand more until Bucky really believed him. He’d had ideas of what HYDRA had done to him but never thought about it outside of the scope of what Bucky had mentioned in passing or what he’d briefly heard from Rumlow. He knew it was bad, but had no idea that it was  _ that  _ bad. A renewed sense of guilt, paired with nausea, churns his stomach. The implication of what they’d done to him because he couldn’t stop him from falling makes him squeeze Bucky even harder, his throat dry. “I’m the one who’s sorry, I’m so sorry that all of this happened to you and I wish I could’ve stopped it from happening,”

“You couldn’t a’ done anything,” He nuzzles into Steve, speech muffled against his neck. The sound of Steve’s voice wavering is almost surprising him, him normally the less prone to tears out of the two of them. He’s earnest in saying it; he blames himself more than anyone for everything that had happened, he blames Pierce, Zola, SHIELD, but never, never Steve. He only saw Steve as salvation, the one paragon of goodness in his life. It makes him a little sad to hear Steve doubt himself like that, even if he can understand why. 

But he doesn’t want to be sad anymore, and he doesn’t want Steve to be sad either, so he takes it upon himself to find something else to do. Still holding onto Steve, he turns his gaze back to the pads of paper on the table. He quickly overlooks his own and looks at what Steve was drawing and sees it’s an unfinished flower.

“I like your flower,” He sniffles. Steve understands what he’s doing and is glad that he at least knows how far he can go before getting too upset. As much as it wounds him to see Bucky so worked up, he’s glad to see him spill some of what he’s had bottled up for seventy something years. It helps him understand where to go and what to do, and hopefully lifts some weight off of Bucky’s shoulders. 

“Oh, thank you, they’re...” He thinks for a moment. He definitely knows what they  _ look  _ like. “I don’t actually know.” Bucky giggles in response and Steve very narrowly avoids the urge to squeeze him even more.

“It’s a pretty color,” Most of it remains uncolored but the parts that aren’t are a deep purple that peters out into blue towards the end of the petal. Steve had started on the rich yellow of the stamen when he was presented Bucky’s own finished drawing. He gazes peers at it, interested in the way the two colors meld into each other. 

“Yeah? You like purple?” Bucky quietly considers the question. Truth be told, he can’t remember his own favorite color. He wonders if he’d ever told Steve but doesn’t want to bother him asking. He figures he could find it out on his own. He did like purple, and blue, and pink, and…

“How about I draw you something you can color in? How does that sound?” He’d seen tons and tons of adult coloring books in stores and figures it’s the same principle as drawing how you feel with less pressure to actually draw something. Bucky perks up in response and nods excitedly. Steve inwardly lets out a sigh of relief and lightly squeezes his shoulder. He definitely thinks he deserves time for doing something that mindless and easy after opening up a little. 

But before anything, Steve decides it would be a good idea to get Bucky cleaned up. Now that he’s getting a good look at him, he can see that his flushed face is a bit of a mess of snot and tears. It makes his heart ache to look at him, his eyes rimmed red and face blotchy, so he wants to remedy that as quick as he can. It takes bribing him with the promise of a sliced pears for him to relent to Steve rubbing him down with wet wipes. Once he’s sufficiently damp, they’re settled back at the coffee table, still next to each other but this time both facing the TV.

“Do you wanna watch something?” Steve offers him the remote and he flips through the channels before deciding on what seems like an innocuous nature documentary about the rainforest. Steve silently hopes to  _ God  _ that it doesn’t turn into the kind that explains the food chain in graphic detail. He wonders if Bucky would be offended at the idea of him making a list of family friendly channels for him to pick from, things that wouldn’t have themes that would inadvertently upset him. He wouldn’t mind watching alongside him, either. 

Bucky’s attention is divided between the TV and Steve while he contentedly munching away on his pears. It’s nice to not think about anything, and he’s happy to just be there next to Steve, free of any pretenses or responsibilities. He excitedly sets to work when Steve presents him with the stark outline of another flower, this time one he’d briefly seen in a planter way back when the two of them lived in their stuffy apartment.

Steve watches him work on it with renewed fervor for a while before drifting away into his own thoughts. He turns over what Bucky had said earlier in his mind, resolving to continue down the list of therapeutic activities he’d compiled for him to possibly try out in his mind. There seemed to be too much choice involved in trying to illustrate what he’s thinking and feeling; he needed something a little less loose ended. 

“Look.” Bucky tugs on Steve’s sleeve, holding up the pad. He’s colored every petal differently, making a rainbow of alternating colors and patterns. Steve makes a big show of taking the pad and gasping in amazement, much to Bucky’s delight. Something is endearing to him about the loud colors and hearts and stars within the petals and he hopes it’s a visible indication of him feeling better. “Oh, wow! That’s great, Buck!” 

“I was real careful to stay in the lines,” He says proudly, pointing to the clean edges of the black outline. Steve nods, actually impressed. It seemed like a feat, given how much Bucky usually struggled to write.

“You’re gonna get better than me, bud. I’m gonna need to start taking lessons from you,” He laughs, leaning into him. Bucky giggles some, bashful at the compliment. Then Steve carefully pulls it from the pad and sets it aside, away from where it could get inadvertently smudged or covered in pear juice. “I’m gonna save this so we can put it up, okay?”

“‘Kay. Can we do another?” Bucky smiles shyly, crayon already held in hand. For now, Steve was content filling pages and pages with brightly colored drawings of flowers, animals and simple landscapes. He makes sure to save every finished one after Bucky excitedly moves onto the next, hoping they have enough fridge space for them all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 


	4. IIII

Steve blinks awake, seeing that the movie he and Bucky were watching ended more than a while ago. The two had settled down on the couch some time before, Bucky lying his head on Steve’s chest. Steve glances down to see if Bucky is still watching and finds that his eyes have since fluttered closed. His ‘good’ hand is brought to his face, thumb in his mouth. He smiles to himself at the sight, carding fingers through his messy hair. He’d never brought it up to him, not wanting to embarrass him, but he’d seen Bucky do it a few times before, mostly while sleeping. It was rare to see him so completely unguarded and calm and he more than welcomed it. It didn’t feel strange to him at all, even if he had the feeling that Bucky would probably disagree. 

Glancing out the window at the midday sun, he decides it’d probably be best for the two of them to do something besides stay in and sleep. Since Bucky enjoyed drawing, he tried to think of some other things the two of them could do together to help him alleviate some stress. That, and the fridge was running out of space for everything Bucky's drawn for him. 

“Hey, Bucky,” When Steve doesn’t get an answer he jostles him some. Part of him hates to wake him up but he knows that without his interference Bucky would easily be able (and more than willing) to just sleep the day away. He figured the two of them have done  _ more  _ than enough sleeping, though. Bucky tries to answer and gets out a ‘whhmmf’ before realizing that his mouth is full. He scrambles to pull his thumb out of his mouth and jolts up, panicked. A hundred different things go through his mind at once, the foremost being ‘ _ Oh God, what is he gonna think _ ’? 

“Whoa, what’s wrong?” Steve blinks up at him, confused. “I’m real sorry if waking you up scared you , I didn’t—”

“I’m the one who should be sorry, I didn’t realize I was…” Bucky’s wide eyed and a flush of embarrassment is starting to creep onto his face. He’s a second away from fleeing to crawl under the covers of his bed or lock himself in the bathroom. But a larger part of him is frozen in place, stomach roiling with anxiety.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Steve says softly, trying to placate him with a smile. Bucky can’t find words to respond with, opting to just gaze at him, thin lipped. 

“Does it make you feel better?” Steve asks. Bucky nods slowly, unsure. He’s not exactly sure of when he started to do it but it always helped him fall asleep on particularly bad days. He tries not to do it now that he was living with Steve but he still found himself doing it purely out of habit, as a way to get comfortable. “Then do it. It’s not like  _ I  _ mind, I think it’s cute.”

Bucky rolls his eyes at the compliment and tries to keep himself from smiling. “Yeah, okay.” He flops back down onto Steve and tries to stuff down the bad feelings that he knows are irrational. He thinks he’s getting a little better at it and Steve tells him so. He doesn’t stick his thumb back into his mouth but he starts to nestle back into Steve, eager to try and resume his nap. 

“C’mon, it’s boring to just sit here all day, Buck,” Steve pokes at him, not forgetting why he woke Bucky up in the first place. “Don’t you wanna do something?”

“I’m alright, thanks.” Bucky turns his face, burying it into Steve’s chest.

“You don’t wanna draw? Or take a walk?” Steve remembers some of the other things he’d read that would be good for Bucky. If all else failed, he’d drag him out to eat or to the store, just to get him out of the house. “Maybe we could read a book together? Or listen to music? Or try something new like gardening or —”

“ _ Gardening _ ?” There’s a lilt to Bucky’s voice that suggests incredulous confusion more than interest, but it’s enough to get Steve excited. 

“You wanna garden?” He asks him, sitting up. Bucky groans at having to sit up alongside him, knowing that he’s probably far too late to continue trying to nap. He knows Steve’s already planning a trip to Home Depot and formulating a list of what they’ll need in his head. “We could get you something small to keep in the house.”

“I guess,” Bucky shrugs. He’s not sure why Steve is so eager to have him trying to grow a plant of all things, but he’s always willing to assent to something if it means making Steve smile. It doesn’t sound like too bad of an idea to him, anyways. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind it.”

Bucky lets Steve hold him by the hand and lead him through the store as he looks around at the sheer multitude of  _ stuff  _ surrounding them. It had probably been about eighty years since he’d been to a hardware store and they definitely weren’t this impressive back then. With anyone else, it would be a fairly quick walk to the gardening department but Steve doesn’t mind explaining things to Bucky every time he tugs on his sleeve and wordlessly points at something, a quizzical expression on his face. The fridges with built-in computers are especially mindblowing to him. “ _ Why _ would anyone need that?” he asks as Steve finally drags him away, remembering why they were there in the first place.

When they finally find themselves standing in front of the well sized display of row after row of seed packets, Bucky is dubiously silent. He blankly looks at the multitude of colorful packages, adorned with spices, vegetables and flowers and Steve imagines he’s probably overwhelmed at the sheer amount of choices laid out before him. He tries to point out a few for him to consider to make it a little easier. “You wanna grow something you can eat? Like carrots? Or broccoli?”

“Yuck.” Bucky shakes his head, crinkling his nose some. Steve can’t be wholly surprised at his distaste for vegetables, given that he survived off of instant oatmeal and candybars in Bucharest. Even now it was sometimes a challenge trying to get him to eat things not saturated with sugar. He laughs a little and leads him to the section labeled ‘ANNUAL FLOWERS’. “Then how about something over here? Flowers are a good thing to start with, I think.”

Bucky slowly scans over the packets, nothing particularly interesting him until a bright picture of orange blooms catches his eye. He steps forward and plucks the packet from the rack, taking a closer look. Among spindly green stems are blossoms shaped like pom-poms with little, ruffled petals in differing shades of orange and yellow. He thinks he  _ might  _ remember having seen them somewhere at some point. He reads the word above the picture aloud, “Marigolds.”

“Marigolds?” Steve peeks over Bucky’s shoulder and hums. They’re not what he’s expecting him to pick out but it’s a welcome surprise. “Ooh, Those are some nice colors, huh?”

“Yeah, that’s why I picked ‘em out.” He’d never give him the satisfaction of knowing, but Bucky’d always liked warm colors because they’d remind him of Steve. That, and they didn’t look as daunting to try and grow as sunflowers or roses. He hands the packet off to Steve, who flips it over to read the back of the packet to himself. ‘ _ Marigolds are one of the easiest seeds in the world to grow, making this perfect for anyone from young children to experienced gardeners.’  _ He smiles, “These sound perfect for you, Buck.”

He lets Bucky hold onto them while they wander through the gardening section to pick up everything else he’d need. He picks out a black, plastic planter so that, he explains, just in case Alpine knocks it over there won’t be as much of a mess to clean up as if it were terracotta. The planter is soon accompanied in Steve’s arms by a handheld set of tools consisting of a trowel, rake and shovel and a small watering can. He catches Bucky’s satisfied little smile at the pile of tools and can’t help but smile himself. After picking up a few other essentials (and a brief visit back to the fridge section), they’re checked out and on their way home. 

“There.” Bucky points to a spot on the windowsill in the living room. Steve nods in agreement, “Plenty of sunlight there, right?” 

“And we get to look at it,” Bucky adds, watching as Steve puts the pot there and sets to opening the bag of soil they’d gotten. When that’s done, he gives the small shovel to Bucky, who passes it from his right hand to his left. It was well made, metal, but at this point it was a habit. 

“Alright, first you have to shovel some soil into the pot,” Steve holds the bag open for him while he cautiously dips it in. He reminds him that it’ll be okay if he spills some and Bucky relaxes a fraction at that but still takes extreme care in emptying the soil into the waiting pot. He understands who Steve is, what he is, but still finds himself reflexively terrified at the thought of making a mess. He wants to beat himself over the head for it, to rid himself of the anxiety that lurches through his stomach and makes him anxious to perform the most mundane tasks he can think of.

He tries to shake the feeling off as they go through the process of getting everything set up, Steve’s encouragement every step of the process aiding him more than a little. He’s very proud of himself when he doesn’t spill a drop while moistening the soil. When Steve opens the packet of seeds and pours some into Bucky’s waiting palm, he cocks his head at what comes tumbling out of the packet. They’re thin and about half an inch long, one half black and the other white. Bucky pokes at them with a finger, perplexed. 

“Didn’t think they’d look like this,” He says, showing them to Steve who mirrors his interest with a ‘huh’ in response. “Funny how these’ll turn yellow when they’re so…”

“They look like burnt matches,” Steve notes, making Bucky chuckle. He presses the seeds into the soil with noted reverence. After covering them up with a little more, Steve explains that the soil has to stay moist to settle and hydrate the roots and then, after that, instructs him on how often he needs to water it. Bucky blinks at the instructions and nods, worried that he’s going to end up killing it before it can actually grow. Steve knows Bucky well enough to know that that would be his first thought, so he tries his best to encourage him.

“When this one grows, you’ll be able to plant some more in the yard,” He says. They’ll have to make the room but he doesn’t mind the work. If anything, it’s just another thing to help Bucky get out of the house and get to doing something productive. Good exercise for him, too, he thinks. “Alongside some other stuff, too.”

“As long as it isn’t carrots,” Bucky replies. “Or tomatoes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all of the comments ;_; <3 hope you like


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